The Forgiving River

What Adam Did

If Adam's hands hadn't been so cold as he reached out his hand to steady himself, he would have felt that the bark of the towering pine tree was course, furrowed and scaly.

 If he hadn't been so scared as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, he would have heard the crunch of the needles beneath his feet.

 If his lungs hadn't been about to explode as he struggled to catch his breath, he would have noticed that it was pouring out of his mouth in a steam and mixing with the fog that enveloped him.

 The men scrambled by his hiding place, laughing at their evil deed. They passed so close that he could smell them. They smelled like everything the night had held: cheap whiskey, sweat, blood, burning flesh, singed hair, fear.

 Once they passed, he leaned against the base of the tree, feeling the adrenaline drain from his body, leaving him weak. He sat there, man-spine to tree-trunk until his breathing returned to normal, his heart rate slowed, and his nausea subsided.  Then, he pulled himself wearily to his feet and made his way, stumbling and disoriented, through the woods, up the hill, to the safety and warmth of home. When at last he reached his house, he tripped up the stairs to the porch, threw open the door, and collapsed on the bed, where he spent the remainder of the night in a fitful, troubled sleep, thrashing and crying out, dreaming of it, waking up, gasping for air, and then drifting off to dream of it again.

 He awoke the next morning and remembered it. He was instantly sickened and raced up the hall to the bathroom where the previous night's nausea overcame him. When the waves ebbed, he leaned his head against the cool porcelain. After a couple of minutes, he stood, shaky and unsteady, but upright.

 He leaned on the vanity, putting all of his weight on his right hand, and wiped his eyes with the back of his left hand. As his hand came down, he caught his own reflection in the mirror. He looked deep into his own eyes, questioning himself, wondering what to do.  As bad as it was, he couldn't tell. He was part of it, for God's sake. And if he did tell, they would come for him. So standing there, looking at himself, probing his soul, he made his decision. It was over. He would forget it. Never visit that place again. Not the place in the woods. Not the place in his memory.